


The Mind of His Own

by The_Part_Time_Writer



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Hurt Sherlock Holmes, M/M, Scars, Sherlock Holmes Needs a Hug, Sherlock Holmes Returns after Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-05
Updated: 2019-03-03
Packaged: 2019-10-04 12:52:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17304986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Part_Time_Writer/pseuds/The_Part_Time_Writer
Summary: Note: Eurus nor Mary existed.





	1. Part One

When Mycroft was born, it was no surprise that he inherited the Holmes' intelligence. Mummy and Father were quite intelligent, and it was only natural that their child would be smart as well. So, when Mummy was pregnant with Sherlock, it was to be expected that he would be quite bright, too. However, when the child psychologist thought Mycroft was smart, surpassing his parents with an unprecedented amount, Sherlock was a genius. Sherlock's intelligence could not be calculated. Despite all of the tests, Sherlock's IQ could only be described as infinite. Being a genius, though, has its downfalls and Sherlock grew to know them all too well.

Since the age of four, Sherlock had tutors five hours a day, six days of the week. By the age of five, Sherlock mastered the art of deduction and often found himself in somewhat troublesome positions when he couldn't understand how to filter his words. Mummy and Father had always grimaced and called Sherlock a peculiar little boy, describing him as their youngest son. Mycroft was described the same, but when it came to others, their character could not have been more diverse. Mycroft was defined as the perfect son; he was outstandingly superior when it came to intelligence and social niceties. However, despite being the younger brother by seven years, Sherlock was given no respite for his youth and was detailed as an aberration of the family, an impertinent hellion.

Sometimes, when a case goes wrong, and Lestrade calls Sherlock just a little too late, or if children were involved, it's all too much. Everything is just too much. Those are the days when Sherlock is reminded of his childhood. The inescapable memories swarm his Mind Palace, and Sherlock can't do anything about it. Those are the days when Sherlock sees his childhood bullies mercilessly taunt him with cruel nicknames, and his name is no longer Sherlock but William. Those are the days when Sherlock is trapped in his mind, haunted continuously by all of the pains of his past. He can't help but feel the shame of being the freak during his youth with only his violin to mask the hurt others inflicted upon him. He can't help but remember every bit of torture he went through while undercover in Serbia just to come home to more pain and more suffering. But most of all, Sherlock can't help but relive all those moments when he let down Molly and Lestrade and Mrs Hudson and John. Oh god, Sherlock can't help but have the uninhibited rage in John's eyes that burned through Sherlock's skin ingrained in his Mind Palace. All those emotions and all those memories, Mycroft calls it sentiment, wash over Sherlock, leaving Sherlock a sobbing mess.

It's not that hard to know when it's a bad day. When the case is over, and all the paperwork is finished, Sherlock will pale a sickly colour, his forehead sweating as his curls stick to the skin. And, as tempting as it would be for Sherlock to start insulting everyone within a five-metre range if it had gone well, Sherlock would stay silent, refusing to speak or even make a sound. Sometimes, when the case went especially bad, or a child got hurt, (regardless if the child was a victim, bystander, or culprit) Sherlock would start muttering phrases in a foreign language that nobody could understand. Even Donovan and Anderson know to stay away from Sherlock then.

Before the fall, Sherlock never fell into this state, at least never fell into such a state where it would be noticeable by others. But, when Sherlock returned from Serbia with his back torn apart and injuries grave enough that even Sherlock considered admitting himself to a hospital, the bad days came so often there were entire weeks that Sherlock couldn't take control of his mind. John had made it very clear when Sherlock approached him that he no longer wished to be associated with Sherlock at all anymore. John had punched Sherlock repeatedly, tearing the majority of Sherlock's stitches. Sherlock had to return to Mycroft to get his back stitched up again before trying to talking to Mrs Hudson. Just like John, Mrs Hudson had hit Sherlock repeatedly before begrudgingly shoving Sherlock inside and throwing the keys in his face. Sherlock had wept then, muffling his cries with a pillow until he fell asleep. The next day, Sherlock tried to approach Lestrade, his excitement to see the DI clearly evident. However, instead of a warm greeting, or even a passive acknowledgement of his existence, The DI lunged at Sherlock, his anger refusing to be contained.

"You bloody bastard! It's because of you that I lost my job! While you were on some vacation in the Bahamas, we were suffering here!" Lestrade screamed at Sherlock, pushing him down to the ground.

"I-" Sherlock started.

"We grieved for you. All of us mourned and suffered our supposed loss while you- you machine probably studied our reactions. You should have stayed dead, Freak."

With the final word spoken, Lestrade had left, leaving Sherlock lying on the ground in a carpark. The stitches surely had ripped again, but Sherlock didn't care. Instead, he tried to reach out to Molly, the only one besides Mycroft to have known about his plans yet she, too turned him away violently. It was then that Sherlock decided to leave 221B Bakerstreet and live in a smaller, more plain flat by himself. Moriarty's promise of burning the heart out of Sherlock rang throughout Sherlock's mind that day, wearing down his every step. Sherlock may have won the battle, but in the end, he had lost the war. Martha Hudson was the one that gave Sherlock a home to live in, treating Sherlock like a son and giving the motherly support Sherlock was once denied when he needed it the most. Greg Lestrade was the one that gave Sherlock an opportunity in life, showing the lost junkie the path to success. Then, there was Molly Hooper who was Sherlock's friend no matter how he had acted. Finally, there was John Watson who was Sherlock's conductor of the light, guiding him through life and helping Sherlock become a good man.

These people were all Sherlock's friends, close enough to be considered family in all but blood. These people were there when Sherlock had struggled the most, supporting Sherlock through life and now they hate him. Even Sherlock understands that he is no longer welcome near them. Somehow through death, Moriarty had still won.


	2. Part Two

It wasn't hard finding a new flat in London, nor was it hard finding cases that Sherlock found suitable. Somehow, Sherlock was granted access to a lab to conduct his experiments with unlimited resources and funds. Sherlock knew it was Mycroft's meddling that got him access to such a lab with the state-of-the-art equipment and cases directed his way (that part wasn't hard since it was always Anthea delivering the files) yet Sherlock couldn't seem to care. If it weren't for Mycroft, Sherlock's head would have exploded from the ever continuing stream of thoughts or perhaps it would have rotted away from the lack of challenges. Either way, neither Mycroft nor Sherlock cared since both of them knew that Sherlock needed this.

Sometimes, Lestrade would text Sherlock to come over, and Sherlock would drop everything, cases and experiments included, so he could maybe, just maybe, rekindle his friendship with Lestrade. Usually, Lestrade would glare at him until he left so Sherlock wouldn't dare speak unless it was a deduction. At first, Anderson and Donovan would taunt Sherlock ruthlessly, having a field day making Sherlock miserable at the crime scene until they grew bored from the lack of response. The old Sherlock would have torn the duo apart, using the acerbic tone that only Sherlock could produce. Yet now, Sherlock couldn't even muster up a glare. The cases that Lestrade wanted Sherlock's help on usually ended badly since Lestrade most of the time refused to let Sherlock help until the whole team badgered him into it. Then, it would be too late, and there would be another gruesome death.

Those are the bad days. There is no Mrs Hudson to mother him so he could feel at rest knowing he's safe at home, nor is there John to make sure he eats before Sherlock enters his post-case sleep of the dead. Instead, Lestrade would glare at Sherlock from behind as he staggers to a nearby road and somehow finds a cab to take him to the flat. The Met ignores Sherlock during those moments, not wanting to make Sherlock feel more sickly knowing the past they share with him. Other times, someone would pity Sherlock and find a cab for him. Sherlock never argues with anyone, not even Anderson or Donovan.

Once in a while, Mycroft might enter Sherlock's flat due to Sherlock forgetting to eat and sleep. Without John, Sherlock seldom remembers to take care of himself, usually remembering once he passes out while in the middle of an experiment and wakes up slumped over the microscope. If Sherlock was skinny beforehand, he's a dead man walking. Sherlock's face has sunken in, the pale skin somehow turning deathly white and all the fat, as well as muscle he once had, is gone. When Mycroft does intervene, Sherlock is usually so ill that he has no strength to even say sarcastic remark back. That tears Mycroft apart, seeing his younger brother suffering after all he's sacrificed for the ones loved then and still loves now.

Sherlock knows that this could have all been avoided. If Sherlock were just a little bit smarter, just a little bit brighter, Moriarty would have been captured, and everyone would have been safe. Sherlock would have been able to deduce Moriarty's actions and thus, deduce where Moriarty was. Instead, Sherlock acted like a fool and that ultimately led to the current disaster. When Sherlock isn't solving a case, passed out, or loathing himself, Sherlock is ruminating on the Reichenbach Fall. Today was no exception yet for some reason, Mycroft decided to appear in his flat.

"I ate and slept yesterday, didn't I?" Sherlock asked, his voice wavering just the slightest as he tries to maintain his composure. He isn't losing his mind; he couldn't be losing the last part of himself. Sherlock's breathing accelerated as he drew up his knees to his chest, the panic swelling as alarms in his mind began blaring.

"Yes, brother mine, but your eating and sleeping habits aren't what brought me here." Sherlock stayed silent. "Throughout our years, we have always had a strained relationship. It has taken several incidents for us to be remotely close, granted you were never in the place to refuse help, and I presume that it has to do with the friendships you have with one John Watson, Martha Hudson, Gregory Lestrade, and Molly Hooper."

"Even you, Mycroft, know that they were more than incidents. John, Mrs Hudson, and Lestrade hit me, and all four of them despise my entire existence," Sherlock quietly spoke, moving over to the couch as Mycroft follows.

"Yes, well," Mycroft began "I could have them moved to a foreign country if you wished." Sherlock froze at this.

"Whatever they may have done in the past and whatever they may do in the future due to my faked death is all right; I can handle it. I gave up nearly everything to keep them safe, and I can't let it all go to waste. Please, just leave it be," Sherlock pleaded.

Soon, the pair finished their conversation in their own brotherly way. Finally, Mycroft relented, his face softening as he spoke, "The both of us have struggled with emotions throughout our entire lives but know this: If you were to die, it- it would cause me great pain. I may not show it often, but I do care about you."

Sherlock didn't know how to respond, his body was frozen still. Mycroft rose, reached out for his umbrella, and slowly exited the flat, the quiet taps of said umbrella fading out as Mycroft left. Despite all of the past disputes he shared with his brother, Sherlock has always known the Mycroft cared for him, and he cared for Mycroft. His older brother's meddling may have been annoying at times, but if he were in a similar position, Sherlock knows he would have done the same thing.

Throughout Sherlock's life, people had left him, sneering at the junkie. But, the only person that hasn't abandoned Sherlock was his brother. His elder brother has always taken care of Sherlock, doing his best to keep him in relatively good health and safety. Mummy and Father never understood Sherlock yet Mycroft had. He was the one person in the family that Sherlock could look up to. Mycroft is a good brother, better than everyone gives him credit for and Sherlock knows this.

Sometime later, Mycroft sent a signal, and Plan B was set in action.


	3. Chapter 3

Mycroft learned from a young age never to hope. He learned never to wish, never to dream, and most importantly, never to love. He learned that ever since he was a small child, regularly chastised by either Mummy or Father or his caretaker until those lessons were ingrained into his memory. For a while, he was the perfect Holmes child, a cold, unfeeling child who only let the facts influence his decisions. That was all shot to hell the moment Sherlock was born.

Mycroft remembers the second he saw Sherlock, seeing the bright blue eyes piercing through his soul. Waves of sentiment crashed down upon Mycroft that day, seven years worth of emotion breaking down the walls Mycroft struggled to build. He remembers that day clearly. He remembers the raw, unbridled urge to protect his little brother and to guide him through the world that Mycroft himself, once had to venture through alone. And most clearly, he remembers the vow he made to himself to always protect the fragile life brought into the cruel world of politics.

As a child, Mycroft was treated like an adult, expected to act years ahead of his age and to represent the Holmes family. He was taught all the essential subjects like mathematics and science as well as several foreign languages but also subjects that no child should ever need to know like politics and finances. Sherlock was no different yet somehow, the child-like spirit never faded. Despite all of Father's and Mummy's attempts, Sherlock always had that fiery passion for learning and experimenting. The curiosity of the world never faded until he returned from his several-year-long absence.

Mycroft, a man who was taught to withstand torture, to kill if needed to on demand, to learn the cruelties of life as a mere child, had never seen his younger brother so vulnerable and it scared him. The gut-wrenching fear for not only his younger brother's life but heart and soul melted any wall he may have constructed. It clawed at his heart and tore apart his being as he watched Sherlock suffer through the torture in Serbia before he could rescue him, only to see him being brutally beaten by the ones that meant the most to him.

Sherlock had never reached this state before, somehow always managing to be collected in the most trying of times. Even when his peers at school would taunt Sherlock, beating him black and blue, he never lost his cool persona. But seeing Sherlock so vulnerable stirred something in Mycroft, resurfacing the memories of his own childhood and his vow to protect his younger brother at all costs and reminding Mycroft of his failure. Seeing Sherlock so unguarded reminded Mycroft of all the times he drove away his younger brother away in favour of power and rising the ranks to being the British Government. And, in the end, seeing Sherlock so defenceless awakened the sentiment for his younger sibling, strengthening the brotherly love he felt for Sherlock. So, when he entered the warehouse, it was no surprise that it was the same one he first questioned Dr John Watson in.

The four figures sat in chairs were struggling, the rope chafing their wrists and ankles as they desperately tried to escape. Seeing red marks begin to appear through the video surveillance camera, Mycroft decided it was time to pronounce his presence, tapping his umbrella on the ground with each step. Suddenly, the quartet froze, understanding who their captor was. As Mycroft entered the lit portion of the warehouse, the same place where Gregory Lestrade, John Watson, Matha Hudson, and Molly Hooper sat, he tutted slightly, letting his mask of indifference take place. With a slight twitch of his hand, the eight guards positioned at all the exits left, leaving only Mycroft and the so-called friends of Sherlock alone.

"Despite all of your pasts, not one of you were able to land a single hit on one of my men. How disappointing," Mycroft spoke, leaning slightly on his umbrella.

"If you've kidnapped us simply to ask where that freak is, go find him yourself. We want nothing to do with that bastard," sneered Lestrade as a tried once again to escape the ropes that bound him to the chair. The others nodded in approval.

"Sherlock is currently asleep in my home being carefully monitored, so his condition isn't further worsened. That, however, is beside the point. It has come to my attention that you have decided to cut all ties with him, quite violently, if I may add," Mycroft replied with a cold tone.

"Well, he deserved that. He forced me to watch his supposed death and then waltzed back into my life several years later," John barked as he clenched his fist.

"Yes, while my brother's return was a surprise, he did not come waltzing back into your life, as you put it, nor could he barely move at all. Tell me, Dr Watson, did my brother look poorly to you, so poorly like he might faint? Probably not because you were too busy beating him to notice." Mycroft paced slightly before untying the group and producing four identical folders. "Do read these fully before you tear the documents apart. These folders contain what Sherlock did during his absence and why he left at all."

Slowly, they opened the folders and read the papers, paling as they learned of Sherlock's sacrifice to keep his friends safe. Deciding to make them pay, Mycroft spoke, his words sharp and demanding, "Sherlock spent six months in Serbia being tortured to the point where any normal man, even my agents, or minions as Sherlock would call them, would beg for death. He was burned, whipped, stabbed, starved, the list goes on. But not once did he plead for them to stop because if he did, his plans for your safety would be for nought. It was two days after his rescue that he approached you, Dr Watson, after work. He, by no means, should have been out of bed, needless to say, out in the streets yet he could not wait to have you back in his life."

Mycroft told the group of Sherlock's pain and how he needed to get his back restitched twice in less than eighteen hours, of Sherlock's eagerness to have his four friends back in his life as soon as possible and how he was cast away, and finally of Sherlock's ultimate sacrifice and how he gave up everything he loved. Mycroft explained how Sherlock was willing to sacrifice The Work and his friendships if it meant that they would live another day with the end goal of maybe, just maybe, escaping alive to try to explain his actions.

Mycroft twisted the knife in the groups' hearts by finally telling them how Sherlock, in his absence, left Baker Street to Mrs Hudson so she'll never be just the landlady of 221 but the owner of the entire block of buildings. Mycroft revealed how all of Sherlock's lab equipment was left to Molly so she would have the state-of-the-art supplies, a brand new computer for Lestrade rich with the Sherlockian style that must have cost a fortune, and a final gift for John that not even Mycroft himself dared to look at due to its deep meaning. Then, Mycroft sauntered off, leaving with only a slight feeling of satisfaction knowing that the situation would be rectified because what the British Government wants, the British Government gets.

Sherlock, on the other hand, slept soundly throughout Mycroft's absence, entirely unaware that his elder brother left. While the doctor, detective inspector, pathologist, and landlady wept in their chairs for the pain Sherlock suffered, Sherlock slept, his back finally beginning to heal. But Sherlock deserved this and more. Sherlock deserved this lull of tranquillity as the rain drizzled down onto the streets of London, and the sweet sound of a violin played faintly in the background.

Sherlock will heal, Mycroft made sure of that, and his back will scar, but it will heal. Sherlock's trauma, both psychological and physical, will be addressed and someday, maybe not tomorrow or the next day, and Sherlock will be like he was before. Whether it be with his friends or without, Sherlock will be given his name back, and the honour and fame and cases that come with it and he will heal.


	4. Chapter 4

When Sherlock jumped, John mourned. At first, he was angry. John was furious at himself, his last words to his deceased best friend forever relaying in his mind. Then, his anger turned to guilt, the type that tore him apart day by day until he eventually left the clinic because he couldn't function anymore. Ultimately, the self-blame turned to grief. Sometimes, the pain lessened, the sorrow that impaled John's heart slowly fading away only to surge up once again some few days later. Then, when Sherlock approached him after work with no warning, emotion flooded through his veins and John lashed out. He didn't mean to hurt Sherlock, he honestly didn't. But, at that moment, rage took place, and he couldn't control himself.

Sherlock met Mrs Hudson first; his drug-addled mind somehow being able to prove her husband's guilt and lock him up for the rest of his miserable life until his death sentence was carried out. The stress of being a drug cartel's wife was lifted each day she was free from that vile man, and she vowed that she would repay Sherlock in any way she could, even if no one else did. Soon, the young man in his early twenties wormed his way into Mrs Hudson's heart and became her favourite tenant. Besides Mycroft, Mrs Hudson was the first person to ever look past Sherlock's exterior and see a vulnerable young man lost in a world he doesn't understand.

Then, Sherlock met Gregory Lestrade who was the second person to look though Sherlock's facade. He met Sherlock during a drugs bust, spotting Sherlock crouched down and staring at a needle filled with some clear liquid because he couldn't get his mind to shut up. Lestrade remembers that night vividly. Lestrade had approached Sherlock slowly as if approaching a wild animal, and Sherlock suddenly rambled on with his deductions of the man before curling up in a ball, expecting to be hit, or something of the sort. But instead of the majority of people who would have raised their fists at Sherlock, Lestrade helped Sherlock into his car and drove away to his own house where he helped Sherlock deal with his racing mind through solving the cold cases no one else ever could. It was then Lestrade saw a brilliant mind stuck in an ordinary world and so Lestrade took it upon himself to be not only a friend but a father-figure, helping Sherlock deal with the boredom.

Somewhere along the way, Sherlock collided into one Molly Hooper's life, bringing both excitement and danger. The pathologist was one of the most loyal friends of Sherlock's, granted he didn't have many, and it was easy for her to melt Sherlock's cold exterior. It may have not much, but sometimes it showed. Molly's hard work of helping Sherlock function in the ordinary world proved that she was safe and unlike many, she wouldn't lash out at him. Their friendship was eccentric, to say the least, but Sherlock cared deeply for her, and she cared deeply for him. Molly would let Sherlock use her lab, and in return, she got to see Sherlock be Sherlock, genius and all. This time, however, Molly didn't need to look for Sherlock's humanity; Sherlock showed it to her.

By the time Sherlock met John Watson, he was about to give up. The need for his mind to quiet down was so great that he was about to turn to drugs once more, breaking his vow to quit his addiction and ultimately, quit The Work. Similarly, by the time John met Sherlock, he was about to end it. With nowhere to go and no hope for a job at all, John was ready to put his gun in his mouth. Somehow, when the duo met, their broken shards fit together, each jagged bit of hurt that life placed upon them fitting with the other. John thought Sherlock's mind was an enigma, the way Sherlock thought and his mental prowess constantly awing John. Sherlock thought John was the sun in his solar system, somehow always grounding his mind, stopping the whirring of his brain when it got too fast, and he was an inch away from the drugs. Together, they were Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, the consulting detective with the funny hat and former army doctor disguised in hideous jumpers. They lifted each other up, becoming invincible to the world. Sherlock helped John and John helped Sherlock. Sherlock helped return the ex-army doctor from war into civilian life, and John saw Sherlock for who he really was: an eccentric man with a brain too smart for the world to understand.

Each and every one of Sherlock's friends meant so much to him. Mrs Hudson was like a mother to Sherlock while Lestrade kept Sherlock's mind active. Molly gave Sherlock undying support and John, well John was John. John would be there, in his iconic jumper as the duo dashed across the rooftops chasing a criminal, or at home making a cup of tea and watching crap telly on the sofa, or standing beside Sherlock and guiding him through life, or just marvelling at Sherlock's deductions at crime scenes. Sherlock would endure the torture he faced in Serbia for the rest of his life if that meant his friends would be safe and happy in a heartbeat. Because in the end, Sherlock isn't the psychopath others claim him to be nor is he the sociopath he often calls himself. Instead, he is a human just trying to find his place in the world who cares deeply for the ones that matter to him.

Suddenly, a tentative knock rings through the door, awakening Sherlock from his much-needed slumber. It wouldn't be Mycroft's minions since none of them would make themselves known nor would it be a nurse or a doctor since they wouldn't need Sherlock to be awake for anything right now. Molly? Improbable. Lestrade? Most likely at work. Mycroft? There's no umbrella. Mrs Hudson? Deplores Sherlock. John? Implausible. All of them? Highly unlikely. An agent of Moriarty the somehow eluded Sherlock and was out for revenge? Ah, that's more like it. So, instead of calling for help, Sherlock grunts, opens the door, and welcomes his would-be murderer in. But, instead of an angry agent brandishing a gun, there are the four people he died for wielding sorrow faces and stress lines.

Instinctively, Sherlock panics and tries to shut the door before dashing over to the window to escape. Unfortunately, there is no lock on his door, and the quartet comes in anyway and stops Sherlock mid-leap. Lestrade pins Sherlock down on the bed as he struggles a minute or two before going limp, realising that it would be impossible for him to escape. The sight was pitiful as Sherlock pleaded with them to let him go, promising to leave the city, the country, or even the continent if they truly wished for his absence.

"Calm down Sherlock, before you rip a stitch out," Lestrade soothes, and slowly, Sherlock relaxes.

"Why are you here? Don't you all hate me? You made it quite clear that my presence wasn't welcome," Sherlock whimpers, his voice quiet and soft.

"I- well, we- Sherlock- Fuck," John stammers as his shoulders droop as his forehead creases, his face now looking ten years older.

"What John is trying to say is that we're sorry, all of us. When you left, we all grieved because there would be no Sherlock in our lives. And, when you did return, it was such a shock to all of us, and none of us knew how to handle it. Mycroft spoke to us today, and we just want to say we're sorry," Lestrade says, releasing Sherlock as he steps away, hoping that Sherlock won't try to dash away.

There's another knock on the door, but this time there is a second, slightly quieter, tap. That must be Mycroft. The door opens and Sherlock, as well as his visitors, are greeted with an unhappy Mycroft. Mycroft is livid, a scowl somehow managing to take place past the mask of indifference. "The situation isn't about who suffered the most nor is it about Sherlock's method of return. What the situation is about is that you all decided not to listen to my brother's explanation as to why he had to leave in such a fashion, but rather turn to violence that left Sherlock in a more critical condition than before," Mycroft sneers. Sherlock looks down at his hands while the others visibly wince.

"Before you enter my brother's room again, understand his sacrifice for your safety and, as many would put it, get your heads out of your arses. Yes, the pain of losing Sherlock was excruciating, and Sherlock knows this. Yes, you mourned, grieved, whatever you choose to call it for approximately two years and suddenly got Sherlock back again without notice. But none of you stopped to think before you struck him, causing further permanent scarring and injuries. So, unless you wish to be forcibly removed from this room, I suggest you leave." Mrs Hudson was silently crying into a handkerchief as the group shuffled out, the door closing behind them.

A few moments later, Mycroft walks over to the other side of the room, watching silently as the quartet exit the house and enter a cab. Then, he turns around and spots his brother with a face full of anguish and sadness. "Caring is not an advantage. When Mummy realised that I wasn't going to change and that I would often cause the family name more humiliation that it was worth because I didn't know what was and wasn't acceptable, you taught me that line. It is easy to act impassive, but why, if I can somehow solve the unsolvable, can't I stop the sentiment?" Sherlock asks, his voice sounding small and strained.

Mycroft sighs, puts his umbrella down, and sits beside Sherlock. This was one of those moments when Mycroft looked down at Sherlock and saw the little boy called William. His eyes are full of tears, and some manage to trickle down his cheeks. "As much as it is comforting to hide behind a mask of nonchalance, you and I are as human as anyone else. We are all sentimental, some more than others, and we can't help but feel. Some decide to show it while others choose to hide it. The statement I taught you is a lie. Without sentiment, there would be no pain of losing a loved one or fear for another. Likewise, without sentiment, love, happiness, and excitement would cease to exist alongside every other emotion. These emotions, these feelings, are what make us truly alive. Life without sentiment would be, as you say, dull," Mycroft says, causing Sherlock to smile a little.

"Life would be dull. Is that why you always carry that umbrella? I think I gave it to you for your twentieth birthday," Sherlock says.

"Sentiment indeed, brother mine. But it does have its uses. You did, after all, design it to carry a gun of your own creation in the handle as well as a few other weapons in various locations. My colleagues were flabbergasted how a child, barely an adolescent, could design an umbrella to be so dangerous. One may say that you were worried about me," Mycroft banters as both of them give a small laugh.

Then, a comfortable silence takes place as Sherlock and Mycroft stare down, watching the streets of London. Perhaps having a flat on the higher floors did have its advantages after all.

"Do you think you could get my violin from Baker Street? I don't think I can sit another hour without it," Sherlock asks, breaking the silence.

"Certainly, little brother," Mycroft says as he bade Sherlock goodbye. When the door closes, and the extra taps from the umbrella could no longer be heard, Sherlock smiles, only now realising how long it has been since he felt at peace and how much he missed having his older brother around without the fighting. Slowly, Sherlock drifts off with the small smile still on his lips. In a few hours, when Sherlock will wake from his nap, the violin, as well as miscellaneous puzzle items, will rest beside the bed, ready to be used.


	5. Chapter 5

One week after the visit, the doctors determined that Sherlock no longer needed careful monitoring. Daily check-ups from a nurse would be sufficient seeing as he is no longer in critical condition. Once free from the confines of the bed, Sherlock started to find himself slowly receding into his Mind Palace where Mrs Hudson would be waiting with a nice warm bite to eat while she fusses over him, denying that she is his housekeeper. Sherlock never believed her to be his housekeeper. No, never that. Mrs Hudson could never be a housekeeper to Sherlock. To Sherlock, she was like a mother, his so-called unfeeling heart caring more for him each day as he wakes to some biscuits or scones and a fresh cup of tea made to his liking.

Molly would be waiting for Sherlock at Barts with another body part, sometimes eyes or fingers or, if he was fortunate, a human heart in perfect condition ready to be experimented on. She would smile, handing Sherlock the body part before rushing off. Sherlock missed her dearly, her comically awkward self finding her way into Sherlock's heart because both of them understood each other. Molly understood Sherlock and Sherlock understood Molly. Sometimes, if an experiment was extremely time sensitive and Sherlock needed an extra set of (competent) hands or if Molly needed help finishing her work, they would be lab partners, working in sync to each other as they complete the task. It was mesmerising the way the two moved around the lab in tandem as each knows what they have to do and what the other is doing.

Then, Lestrade would ask Sherlock for help on a case that has everyone else stumped, and Sherlock's mind would be free from the excruciating boredom that will, Sherlock knows this will happen without stimulation, rot his brain. And John, the ex-army doctor would mutter praises under his breath as Sherlock's mind pieces together clues that no one else can. And once said case is all finished, they, Sherlock and John, might laugh on the ride home or even at the crime scene still high on the rush of adrenaline.

But when Sherlock is forced back into reality away from the comfort of his Mind Palace, he would realise that what he imagined was life before the fall, the very life he had taken for granted. Sure, Sherlock was crueller then, but he still had John and Molly and Lestrade and, albeit, Mycroft by his side. Now, he only has Mycroft that will surely leave, too.

Sometimes, Sherlock would solve the cases Mycroft assigned him. Well, it was more of asking to solve the case. Sherlock knew that his past self would have sneered at his brother's requests, forcing him out with snide remarks as his brother would walk out, suitable annoyed and, not that anyone would notice, hurt. But now, with Sherlock's mind frayed yet somehow perfectly intact for cases, he couldn't refuse because if he did, he would retreat back into his Mind Palace and in a few days be forced out once again by an agent of some sort.

It was always painful to be torn away from his Mind Palace. Sherlock could uncover state secrets from a sing look a the person, reveal their deepest secrets kept hidden for decades from even the most prying of eyes with a few casual questions and control his mind to do the impossible as others tried and failed yet every time someone gently shook him back into reality, the pain would surge again as if it was the first time and Sherlock was powerless to stop it. Sherlock was helpless as the hurt, the emotional agony would rise once more and the sadness, the despair, seemed as if it would swallow him whole.

Of course, Sherlock knew this his somewhere inside his Mind Palace, that this was nothing compared the hell he'd lived for the past two-plus years. Rationally, Sherlock knew that this was the easy part. All that was left to do was solve any case Mycroft requested his assistance on and heal. This should be easy, this should be the simple part, the part where he could lie down and just stop thinking for once. But Sherlock knew that emotions are never rational. Irene Adler, in a moment of sentiment, created a password to her most precious item that if, had she not let her heart weasel its way into her Work, would have still been with her and her get-out-of-jail-free card still tucked away safely within her reach.

But the heart is never rational, and perhaps Sherlock is more human than everyone gives him credit for. In the end, this hurts more than everything else he endured during his absence. After all he did, all the lives he ended and ruined, all the people he stepped on to keep his friends and albeit older brother safe, it was for nought. They all had suffered, and for once, he couldn't stop it. There was no fail-safe, no plan B to switch unlike before. It was too late, Moriarty had won even buried six feet under and Sherlock understood fully how a corpse that, during the life it had once lived, had a brain that rivalled Sherlock's that capitalised Sherlock's lack of emotional experience and signed away his doom.

Eventually, after the tenth time during the day an agent had to shake Sherlock back into reality as per Mycroft's orders, Sherlock had enough. Sherlock knew that he couldn't keep on existing like this. Sherlock couldn't keep on hurting this amount and keep on going. He wasn't strong like Lestrade or Mrs Hudson or, most of all, John. He couldn't lose everything that mattered to him and keep on walking.

Moriarty had once said that people die, that's what they do. And maybe it was time for Sherlock to go. Distantly, Sherlock remembered Mycroft's words in from before The Fall. He remembers standing in the hallway as his brother said, "All lives end. All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock." And at that moment, he didn't know what to say back. He didn't know how to respond to a statement like that, so he sneered at something and complained about a topic completely different from the previous one. But now, while caring may still not be an advantage, but he can't help it. He can't block out the emotions like he did before and he's drowning in it.

So maybe that's why Sherlock found himself standing on the roof of St. Barts teetering over the ledge staring off the distance. Nobody saw him of course, and he wondered, vaguely, whether anyone would truly look around and observe. But, as his thoughts grew darker and his heart ached more, he found himself inching closer to the edge, the need to end this suffering growing stronger with each breath. Yet, with one foot off the building, and the final plan set into action, Sherlock hear the slamming of a door and hurried footsteps. Sherlock stiffened, turning his head slightly to gain vision of the figure behind him.

"Don't you fucking dare take another step. Don't you dare do that to me, to us. Because if you do, I swear that you'll regret it," John seethed, his face beet red as he pants. Mrs Hudson and Lestrade come into view soon after John, panic written all over their faces. Sherlock's eyes widen, and he stays like that for a moment, caught like a child stealing cookies from the cookie jar. That lasts for just a second, probably less, before the three grab onto Sherlock and yank him back onto the roof and hold him there, cautious around his back.

Mycroft must have sent them in hopes of reconciliation because several not-so-discrete helicopters fly in the distance. Molly eventually arrives, out of breath and pain-stricken. Somehow, the quartet manage to get Sherlock over to Baker Street, none of them saying a word as they lead an oddly compliant Sherlock through the crowds. Somewhere on the ride, Sherlock fades back into his Mind Palace, trying to escape back into his thoughts where he wouldn't hurt, his heart no longer weary with life and he can just relax among the people he once trusted.

 


End file.
